


Push and Pull

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - D/s, BDSM, Dom!John, M/M, d/s verse, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: John Watson was too small to be a Dom. That seemed to be the general consensus. His ID and the thin black bracelet on his right wrist confirmed that yes, he was, but Sherlock had yet to see him out-shout anyone else, Dom or Sub. He quite frankly didn’t seem to be interested.





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was too small to be a Dom. That seemed to be the general consensus. His ID and the thin black bracelet on his right wrist confirmed that yes, he was, but Sherlock had yet to see him out-shout anyone else, Dom or Sub. He quite frankly didn’t seem to be interested.

Paradoxically, it was that disinterest which drew Sherlock’s attention to the man the first day they met and had him actually hoping John would take him up on the offer of a flatshare. He was honestly, voluntarily asking a Dom to live with him. Mycroft surely would have had some strong opinions on the subject if Sherlock had been inclined to listen, which he wasn’t.

John turned out to be unassuming in his daily life as well. To all appearances, he didn’t seem to care that Sherlock was a Sub. He didn’t try to use his dynamic to bully Sherlock into cleaning or sex, he didn’t seem to mind doing the vast majority of the shopping and the washing up, and even when he was angry he merely swore a lot and didn’t drop into The Voice the way so many other Doms would have. Not that The Voice would have had much effect, probably - Sherlock spent most of his teen years training himself to resist the clawing urge to give in and submit whenever his Neanderthal Dom classmates got into verbal dick-waving contests in public - but it was a relief to just _be_ , the two of them, consulting detective and sometimes-assistant. (The exact definition depended on how surly John was being when anyone asked, but he never denied their connection outright.)

The Yarders didn’t know what to make of John at first. Anderson made a few halfhearted attempts in his nasally Voice to push John around, but John merely smiled and told him in no uncertain terms to bugger off. Donovan only got in one snarky comment after seeing John’s bracelet before Lestrade hauled her off and gave her a verbal dressing down in not-quite private, right there at the crime scene. John and Sherlock had shared a good laugh about it later over a styrofoam take-out tray of chicken vindaloo. Lestrade was a Dom, too - nearly everyone on the force was - but he refused to tolerate discrimination among his staff.

On one particular Wednesday morning at the home of a kidnapped anthropology professor, then, Sherlock had his guard down. As much as was possible while among the Yarders, anyway. Anderson was sulking over a particularly cutting deduction Sherlock had made about his hygiene habits, Lestrade was on his fourth cup of coffee in four hours, and John was wearing his oatmeal-colored jumper and had been significantly less put out about having to call off work (again) than Sherlock expected.

“They didn’t really need me anyway,” he explained when Sherlock got Lestrade’s text. “Sure, I’ll come. Be back down in a tick, yeah?”

Sherlock waited in the kitchen without complaint for the full three minutes and forty-two seconds it took John to brush his teeth and get dressed. Crime scenes were infinitely more fun with John along. This particular crime scene was unlikely to be more than about a six, but there was nothing else on and if John was with him that meant he wouldn’t be within chatting-up distance of the nurses at the clinic.

The appearance of the kidnapper took them all by surprise. Sherlock had seen the faint scuff marks on the linoleum in the too-clean kitchen, was poking around haphazardly, but it hadn’t occurred to him that _the entire refrigerator_ pulled out to reveal a secret room. A room in which the kidnapper hadn’t expected to be disturbed, specifically. Before Sherlock could do more than blink, the man was lunging for him with a wicked-looking fillet knife.

 _ **“Drop it,”**_ snarled a voice from somewhere behind and to the left of Sherlock’s shoulder. _John._ Sherlock’s brain stuttered, having trouble matching the unfamiliar tone to its owner. Before he could formulate the rest of that train of thought _(John’s Dominant Voice, he never uses it, assumed it wasn’t all that impressive, but this bloody doorway is too small and my body is still blocking it and he can’t get to the man to intercept him before the knife makes contact),_ his fingers were uncurling of their own accord and his phone fell to the floor.

A clatter of assorted noises from around him indicated the other Yarders were doing the same.

_**“Kneel. Now.”** _

Sherlock, the kidnapper, and every officer within hearing range dropped to their knees. John casually nudged Sherlock out of the way, picked up the knife from where it had fallen on the hidden room’s thin carpet, and regarded it with disgust. _**“Stay,”**_ he intoned.

Sherlock couldn’t have moved if his life depended on it. His jaw dropped open and a wholly mortifying moan came out. John slanted him a curious look, but his attention was mostly on the would-be kidnapper whose eyes were now blown wide in either fear or amazement. Sherlock was having trouble gathering enough brainpower to tell. The man fell forward at a nudge from John’s foot and lay silently, face-down, still staring at the ex-Army captain with the forgettable jumper and the pleasant demeanor and whose Dominant abilities had just exploded the lid off of Sherlock’s world.

“Lestrade,” John called in his normal voice. “Janson appears to be behaving now. You can come and get him.”

Everything felt like it was in slow motion. Sherlock dragged in a breath, then another. John frowned at him, occipitofrontalis muscle taut as it drew his forehead into the little wrinkles it acquired when he was confused about something, but he didn’t move from where he now had Janson’s hands pinned to the small of his back. Lestrade was oddly subdued, too, as he brushed past Sherlock and pulled out his handcuffs.

“Well that was. Unexpected.” John surrendered his quarry and turned back to Sherlock. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I couldn’t - I wasn’t fast enough to. Um.”

 _“John.”_ It was the only word Sherlock could have formed right then, so he imbued it with all the wonder he was feeling and hoped John would get the message. “John, I - _John_.”

John frowned. “You all right, mate?”

Sherlock licked his suddenly-dry lips and nodded. A shift of his gaze confirmed the rest of the Yarders were similarly thrown off - Donovan was inordinately interested in something she was writing on her notepad, Anderson was groping around on the floor for his pen and trying very hard to pretend he was still kneeling on purpose, and even the lackey guarding the crime scene tape at the door to the house was clearing her throat repeatedly. John shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed.

“You want to stick around for more, or . . .?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Would prefer to - ought to head back to Baker street,” he managed. “Thinking.”

“Ah.” John offered him a hand up - a gesture which earned them a raised eyebrow from Lestrade and a side-eye from Donovan - and led the way back outside. Sherlock found himself having to resist the urge to hang on even after John let go of his hand. “Tube stop’s only two blocks away,” John declared. “Doubt you’ll be able to find a cab way out here-”

Sherlock proved him wrong by successfully hailing one thirty seconds later. He gave the driver their address and waited only until John closed the door behind himself before he slid toward the middle of the seat and pressed himself against John’s side.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, although that wasn’t strictly true. “I just need-”

“It’s okay.” John extricated an arm and wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulder. It felt _so good_ there. “I know it’s just a chemical reaction - I promise not to read anything too much into it. You can’t help your transport.”

“I don’t usually do this.”

John chuckled. “I’ve noticed. It’s fine, though - I don’t mind. I don’t usually do that either, but it felt like the right choice at the time.” He squeezed gently, a reassuring pressure across Sherlock’s upper back. “Truth be told, Domming the hell out of that bastard was all instinctive for me as well. It just kind of came out. I apologize for the collateral damage, though. That was . . . awkward.”

“It was _brilliant_.” Sherlock shuffled back just enough he could look John in the face without losing the comforting feel of that half-hug. “I’m going to give the look on Anderson’s face when you dropped him to his knees a special room in my mind palace. Donovan’s, too.”

John tensed - Sherlock might not have caught if if they hadn’t already been touching. “That’s not . . . don’t assume I’m going to do that for you on cases now or anything,” he warned.

“Oh, but you could - _oh!”_ The rest of the realization hit Sherlock all at once. “You’re embarrassed,” he blurted out. “You don’t - but why wouldn’t you like being such a strong Dominant? Why hide it?”

“Hell.” John scrubbed his free hand over his face and shook his head wearily. “It’s a bit like having a lot of money,” he explained. “People constantly waving theirs about, trying to determine some sort of primeval pecking order based on who can influence who. Like they had any say whether they’re a Dom or a Sub in the first place.”

“And you know you’d win the penis-measuring contest with ninety-nine point nine percent of the Doms out there so you don’t see the need to participate?”

“That’s about it, yeah.” John sighed and withdrew his arm, putting space between them as best he could with Sherlock still hogging the middle seat. “I know you’re biologically a Sub, obviously, and I know you don’t ‘do’ this. I hope you know I respect that. I’ve managed to keep a lid on my dynamic around you for this long, so there’s no reason this has to change anyth-”

“What if we want it to, though?” Sherlock interrupted.

John just blinked at him.

“I mean,” Sherlock expounded, “what if I wanted to ‘do this’ with you? Would that be asking too much?” _Crap._ John’s inscrutable expression suggested rather strongly the answer was _yes, it would_. “I understand you might find it unacceptably beyond the boundaries of us being merely flatmates, but I . . .” He swallowed against the sudden pressure in his throat. Inconvenient emotions. “I find myself intrigued by the possibility of submitting to you,” he forced out anyway.

A long pause. “You mean . . . Sherlock, what _do_ you mean?”

 _Merde_. Sherlock shuffled backward, away from John’s tempting warmth. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Delete that. You obviously don’t-”

“It was a question,” John said gently. “Not a refusal. Do you mean only for today, while you’re still feeling shaky? Or making it a regular thing? Platonic, or sexual? What kind of submission do you feel you need?”

Sherlock didn’t know what the hell he needed, honestly, but he knew what he _wanted._ And it was all of the above. Except if John wanted that too, he’d have initiated something ages ago. “I can control my transport,” Sherlock declared. It sounded childish to even his own ears. John thought so too, judging by the one-raised-eyebrow _oh really?_ look he gave back.

“I’m sure,” John said. “But Sherlock? _I can control your transport too.”_

_Fuck._

“Tell me yes,” John urged. He leaned forward and intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s, their joined hands resting on where their knees were still not-quite touching. The contact sent a ripple of sensation of Sherlock’s spine. “We can limit it to whatever you find comfortable, I promise, but . . . this connection? The urge to just give in and _do something_ already? Believe me when I say _it’s not just you.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock only made it up the steps to 221B with the help of John’s hand at the small of his back. Apparently the parts of his brain required for muscle control were among the 95% which were still gibbering at John’s presence.

“Living room or your bedroom?” John asked quietly as he let them in. “We can talk more later, but I’m guessing you need to sit down now, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded shakily and let John guide him to the sofa. His transport was failing him now, right when he needed it most so he could convince John to participate in sexual intercourse, and that was simply unacceptable. His transport wasn’t listening to that sort of reason either, unfortunately. It left Sherlock with his head down, breathing rapidly, and John’s fingers sifting through his curls.

“I should have predicted this,” John murmured. “I hit you with a hell of a blast and that’s not something you usually seek out by choice, right? I mean, I’ve seen you stand up to Doms loads of times, but I think I’d have noticed… I mean, if you--”

“If you mean I don’t have a Dominant partner to go to on a regular basis, you’re correct.” Sherlock let his eyes drift closed and arched into John’s touch. Even just that tiny amount of contact felt amazing. “I don’t know what to do now,” he admitted.

“That’s up to you.” John switched to his left hand, massaging Sherlock’s scalp in a spine-tingling caress. “If you want me to let you go hide in your bedroom and sort yourself out, I will. I’d advise against it, but I won’t stop you.”

Sherlock managed a small shake of his head.

“Okay. Good. Would you like me to put you under a bit and help you ease back out of it, so it’s not quite so big a shock?”

“John, I…” Sherlock took a deep breath and tried not to let himself slip into subspace already, from something as simple as John’s fingers in his hair. “If I asked you to do a proper scene with me, would you?”

He felt John’s entire body freeze up at that. And then relax again, deliberately, degree by degree.

“When you say a ‘proper scene,’” John said slowly, “what are you envisioning?”

For one of a very few times in his life, Sherlock found himself without words.

“Sherlock.” John sat on the sofa next to him, hand sliding down to rest on Sherlock’s opposite shoulder. Not a hug, not quite, but definitely intimate. “You need to tell me what you want. Would you prefer yes or no? Let’s start with subspace--yes?”

“Yes.” Subspace was good. Sherlock rather suspected he was there already, and it was lovely.

“Good. You’re doing just what I asked you to. Brilliant. Next question: pain?”

“...Yes?”

“We’ll put a pin in that and come back to it once you’re yourself again. Next. Um.” John cleared his throat. “How do you feel about more...intimate...scenes?”

Oh, _yes_. Sherlock curled himself into a smaller ball and leaned heavily into John’s lap--apparently his structural muscles had decided to go into subspace as well. “Not with an’one else,” he slurred. “Onl’with you.”

John didn’t say anything at all to that, but his body spoke for him. Warm chest, accelerating heartbeat. John was in favor of sexual intercourse as well. _Perfect_.

“Bed, John,” Sherlock declared. It took effort to shake off the delicious lethargy which made the world feel like swimming through treacle, but it was a necessary trade-off in exchange for a naked John. “Want you.”

“You need a scene. More than you need me being a horndog at you.”

“Bed.”

“Git.” John prodded at Sherlock’s rear. “Okay, up you get. Sherlock. _Move._ ” He desisted after a moment, sighing. “Fine. _**Move.**_ **”**

Sherlock was on his feet before he even realized John had spoken. It was disorienting, to say the least. John just shook his head.

“Go upstairs,” he commanded. “Take off your shirt and trousers and lie face-up on my bed. Mentally recite the periodic table, in order of atomic number, and every time you reach one of the noble gasses I want you to take a deep breath in and out. I want you calm and waiting for me when I get up there.”

 _Perfect_. Simple orders, clear, sequential, easy to follow. Sherlock trotted up the stairs and found himself lying on John’s bed in his pants without consciously performing any of the tasks in between. _Interesting_. Hydrogen, helium. He inhaled, held it in his lungs for a moment, then let his chest collapse. Lithium, Beryllium, Boron…

He was on molybdenum when John entered the room. When he took his deep breath after xenon, John came and sat on the edge of the bed.

“How far are you?” John asked softly.

“Caesium next.”

“Good. Let the elements fade out of your mind, okay? Are you comfortable? You don’t have to speak, just nod or shake your head.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Would you like me to take you deeper?”

He nodded again, more emphatically.

“Good, that’s good. You’re doing beautifully. Christ, you’re already halfway there, aren’t you?”

The answer was probably not, because it certainly felt better than any _halfway_ could be, but that wasn’t John had asked. Sherlock just sighed and closed his eyes instead.

“Stay right there, then. Keep your eyes closed.” The mattress shifted. John standing back up. Some rustling from the other side of the room--normally Sherlock would be able to pinpoint what exactly John was doing, but that felt like too much work at the moment so he let himself relax back into that wonderful floaty feeling again.

“Oh, _lovely._ Just look at you. All right, Sherlock, now for some fun. _**Hands together over your head.**_ **”**

Sherlock interlaced his fingers together.

“Yes, like that, but hold them up. Like you’re about to lie on them, but don’t let them touch the pillow. Now your legs--knees straight. _**Lift**_. There.” John bodily maneuvered Sherlock into position, until Sherlock felt his toes brush the windowsill. The weight of his limbs held in not-quite suspension caused his abdominal muscles to protest, but it was a good ache. “Perfect. Now Sherlock, _**hold that pose.**_ Don’t let any part of your arms or legs touch any part of the pillow or mattress. Nod for me.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and nodded. The stretch had his core muscles screaming already. He felt overwhelmed and exposed under John’s careful gaze, but John was still dressed and probably standing there next to the bed considering what to do next. _Fuck._

“You can open your eyes now,” John added.

Sherlock did. John was standing right where he’d pictured, with very nearly the same facial expression as Sherlock had predicted. Not quite, though. The real-life John had a hint of Captain Watson coming out in his posture, the set of his chin. He looked… predatory. Sherlock shivered.

“I think,” John announced, “that this is what you get off on. Not knives or whips or roleplaying some corny scene. You like me in charge. Being uncertain what I’m going to make you do next.” He trailed a single fingertip down Sherlock’s sternum, leaving goose pimples in its wake. “Giving you a challenge I may have already rigged so I always win. In short--you want me to own you, Sherlock Holmes.”

 _God, yes_. Sherlock nodded as hard as he could without letting his clasped hands dip down and touch the bed.

“I’ve always wanted my very own Sherlock,” John mused. “To play with as I see fit. Legs _**up**_.” He punctuated the order with a quick slap to Sherlock’s quivering stomach, making Sherlock jerk upward in response. And yes, he belatedly realized his legs had been lowering. Sherlock concentrated on touching the tips of his toes to the windowsill again.

“That’s better. Lovely.” John ran his palm all over Sherlock’s chest and abs, now, mostly light and gentle but with the occasional slap or pinch when Sherlock started to flag. “Oh, you _do_ get off on this, don’t you? Look at this gorgeous thing.” His hand slipped down to ghost over the outline of Sherlock’s erection through his pants, and all the breath abruptly left Sherlock’s body.

“If I own you, then this is mine too. I like that.” He kept up the steady barely-there pressure through the fabric. “I’m going to play with my new toy a bit, Sherlock, and you are going to _**stay perfectly still**_. No talking, no squirming, no moving. I want you to imagine right now that your entire body is frozen. Even if you wanted to move, you couldn’t.” A firmer squeeze now, one with intent. “Keep your eyes on my hand and _**don’t. move.**_ ”

Forget moving--Sherlock could barely breathe. His triceps and quadriceps and abdominals were all shrieking with fatigue, but all Sherlock could do was to watch as his John, amazing John, carefully slid Sherlock’s pants down enough he could slip the elastic band under Sherlock’s bollocks. Sherlock's erection was nearly standing upright. John cooed and murmured some sort of encouragement.

“Oh, that’s lovely. All for me. ‘Proud below the navel’--did you know that's what they used to call this? More eloquent than ‘erection’ or ‘boner.’ And you should definitely be proud of yourself, _fuck_. God, your cock is even more gorgeous than I'd imagined. I’m going to touch it, taste it, and I’m going at my own pace. Mind palace, Sherlock--save this image for me. The first time I get to taste your cock.” And then he fitted the deed to the words, leaning down and swirling his tongue around the very tip.

“Nngh!” Sherlock didn’t move, but he couldn’t control the grunt of _yesohplease_ from his transport. John acted as if he hadn’t heard, though, pressing tiny kisses to the glans and corona. Sliding the back of his hand up and down the shaft, occasionally scraping with the edge of a fingernail. They both watched as drop after pearly drop of precome made its appearance and got whisked away.

Eventually, though, John stopped. He stood up, watching Sherlock's face intently, and undid his own trousers. “You don’t come until after I do,” he declared. “ _ **Hold still.**_ Fuck, you’re gorgeous. I can’t wait any longer.” He pulled out his own cock and started tugging on it with considerably less grace. “I’m close, so close, all because of you. My beautiful Sherlock, so trusting. So compliant. I’m going to come all over you, Sherlock. And then I’m going to make you come too. First, though…” He redoubled his speed and shuffled closer. Pointed his penis at Sherlock’s groin. “You may speak now, Sherlock. Talk to me. _**Make me come.**_ ”

Where there had been complete blankness for some unknown quantity of time, suddenly there were words. They poured out Sherlock’s mouth, tumbling over each other, entirely without thought or filter. It would have felt like someone else speaking, except the voice was his own voice and the content was all things only Sherlock knew. Secrets he’d never told anyone, sometimes not even himself. Secrets like how sometimes the play of sunlight over John’s face in the morning made Sherlock forget he was eating until after he’d already finished, or that sometimes he positioned himself just right in his armchair so he could watch the back of John’s head and assess whether it was any more grey than the last time he’d checked. That he’d turned down numerous potential cases, sometimes lucrative and potentially fascinating ones, because he knew John wouldn’t have been able to come or couldn’t, in good conscience, condone Sherlock helping that particular client achieve their ends. That when he did masturbate, which was at an average rate of once every 3.4 days, he almost always did it while picturing John looming over him. Giving commands. In particular, he had a recurring fantasy of John in his army kit, combat boots and all, staring down at him while Sherlock was made to kneel on the floor and suck him off…

John came with a long groan and a warm burst of semen over Sherlock’s midsection. John braced himself with a hand on the wall and panted through it, until the last of the spurts had faded and the words had faded entirely from Sherlock’s mind. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.

Sherlock would probably have come at the sensation of John's warm ejaculate already, if it hadn’t been for the fire raging through his abused muscles.

“My brilliant, gorgeous thing,” John said softly. He reached down and traced a palmful of his own come down the shaft of Sherlock’s cock. “You’re so ready, aren’t you?”

Sherlock whimpered. He couldn’t lift his hips with his feet still at a thirty-degree angle in the air, but that didn't stop his brain from sending signals down to his groin urging him to move, take, encourage. John hadn't given permission for that yet, though, so Sherlock ignored them all.

“You’ve been good for me,” John continued. “Look at you, staying so perfectly still. Now it’s your turn, Sherlock. Now I’m going to make _you_ come. Look at me. _**Look at my face**_.”

John’s face in that moment was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen. Desire, caring, and--could it be?--love, all writ plainly across it for Sherlock to analyze later. Right now, though, his analytical skills were still being shorted out by John’s touch coaxing up and down, pumping him with just the right amount of pressure. Sherlock felt like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, wanting desperately to fall over into orgasm but held back by John’s steady gaze. Testing him. He swallowed hard and gazed back.

“Sherlock, _**come for me.**_ ”

Orgasm overtook him like a freight train. Sherlock’s breath all punched out at once as his body arched, shook, and came. He didn’t realize he’d bent his legs and was digging his heels into the bed to force his cock further into John’s grip until the wave of euphoria passed and Sherlock fell, limp, onto the bed. John climbed up next to him, beaming.

“So amazing,” he murmured against Sherlock’s temple, curling around Sherlock’s side and throwing one arm and leg over him. The inseam of John’s pants was going to be smeared with semen, but John didn’t seem to mind. “You were incredible, love. I don’t know if you were planning for this to be a one-off or not, but if you are I’d beg you to reconsider. Coming home to a scene like this every day would be… _fuck._ ”

“Not a one-off. Not leaving. Stay.”

“Of course I will, Sherlock. You know I’m staying with you no matter what.”

“Good.” Sherlock turned his head and smeared a sloppy kiss against whatever part of John’s head was closest. “Gon’ sleep now, but love you too.”

There was a momentary pause, John startled perhaps, but then John pulled the sheet and duvet up over them and squeezed Sherlock tighter. “I’m yours,” John declared. “I’m your John, and you’re my Sherlock. Forever.”


End file.
